


Thicker Than Water

by Nieve Wolfcaller (Nieve_Wolfcaller)



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bofur is just trying to be helpful really, Fíli is an oblivious drunk, Gen, Kíli needs a hug, Rivendell, dwarves are terrible house-guests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nieve_Wolfcaller/pseuds/Nieve%20Wolfcaller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the brief reprieve at the Last Homely House, Kíli must deal with the fact that he now has blood on his hands. Bofur looks on.</p>
<p>Spinoff based on this hobbit_kink prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=9316373#t9316373</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thicker Than Water

“Throw another log on the fire, won’t you? There’s a good lad.”

At Bofur’s request, Nori ripped the leg from one of the finely carved elvish chairs and tossed it in the makeshift fire pit. The wood crackled and belched smoke. Soon enough the renewed ruckus of the Company’s merrymaking had drowned out the fire’s incriminating hiss. 

Bofur speared another sausage and hummed a little to himself. _The fire was red, it flaming spread . . ._

Thórin Oakenshield had been gone for several hours now, as had their Wizard, their Burglar, and Balin. Neither had they seen hide nor tail of their elvish hosts, which was probably a good thing, Bofur noted, considering the present state of their dining-hall. The Elves’ feast – far too green for any of their tastes – lay practically untouched in their ornate wood bowls. Abandoning the long table, the dwarves had spread across the room or clustered around an improvised campfire. 

Bofur held his poker over the fire, and when the sausage had begun to sizzle merrily, he idly scanned the room. The Wizard was the one who usually did the tallying of their Company, and in his nonattendance, Bofur absent-mindedly took on his task. 

It was not quite that he was feeling protective. (Why should he? He was a simple toymaker; it was the warriors among them who did the protecting.) But they _had_ turned the Elves’ furniture into firewood, and it would be a shame for any of them to get caught and drag Thórin into fast-talking a way out for them, so Bofur counted. 

Bombur sat across the fire, his plate piled with sausages. Perhaps no one was happier than him about their second supper. Bifur sat further away, rocking slightly in tune to a song only he knew, humming in contentment. That was two. 

Óin and Glóin made five. The brothers were in the midst of drinking and loudly exchanging half-remembered bawdy tales. Óin was loud because he could barely hear himself without his ear-trumpet; Glóin was loud because he dearly missed his wife (Bofur smirked). Then came Dori, Nori, Ori, that was eight: the eldest brother glared and shook his head, muttering that they were being a terrible influence on poor red-faced Ori. Nine, ten: Fíli was laughing hard enough to choke on his summerwine, and Dwalin pounded the boy on the back. Fíli had tears in his eyes: he was exceptionally drunk. 

Bofur couldn’t quite blame him. A day filled with the howling of wargs and goblins hounding on their heels did not make for good thoughts before bed. Yet, he did not envy the lad’s headache in the morning. 

Ten dwarves meant they were one short, though, and Bofur’s gaze lingered on Fíli’s reddened face as he scrubbed half-heartedly at his eyes. His shoulders still shook with silent laughter, though nothing was particularly funny about Óin’s present story. He was laughing out of pure relief to be alive. His usual shadow would have laughed, too. 

Yet, Kíli was nowhere to be seen. 

Bofur thought again of the elvish guards, and the interesting looks that would be on their faces when they discovered the missing chairs. Mind made up, Bofur took the sizzling sausage off the fire. 

“Bombur,” he called, prying it loose and tossing it to his brother. When Bombur caught the sausage, a creak groaned out of the chair beneath him. In a split second, the rotund dwarf found himself on the ground as the chair gave out from under him; the dining-hall roared with laughter. Nori cheerfully called for another log on the fire. 

Bofur smiled along with them, dusted off his hands, and went looking while the last choking laughs faded behind him. 

He did not have to look very far for Thórin’s sister-son. The doors onto the balcony were open; Bofur hesitated and then tracked toward them. As he stepped outside, a cool breeze touched his face. It was the taste of late summer: not overbearing in its heat, yet not quite cold. 

Bofur cleared his throat so the other dwarf knew he was there and moved to the balustrade. He leaned out. The cliffside from which they had emerged now lay swathed in darkness: lanterns flickered like tiny fireflies very far down below. Another round of laughter rumbled from inside as Bofur glanced sideways at the figure half-haloed in silver moonlight. 

“You all right, laddie?” he asked kindly. 

“I’m fine. I just . . . wanted to take some air.” 

There was a guardedness in Kíli’s tone that he could respect. The lad shifted restlessly, crossing his arms atop the railing. Bofur only made a noise in his throat, rocking forward on his heels as he peered out. He pretended to be interested in the falling ravine steeped in darkness. Perhaps the sight was somehow comforting to Kíli – perhaps it reminded him of the deep woods of Ered Luin – but it only made Bofur a little dizzy, suddenly conscious of how high they were above the valley floor. He shook his head, blaming the elvish wine. 

In Ered Luin, there had been rumours – most, but not all, stamped out by Thórin’s glare – that the boy had something elvish about him. It wasn’t right, they had whispered when the king turned his back. A dwarfling shouldn’t climb trees. Shouldn’t wander in the woods. Shouldn’t string a bow. 

Bofur had never trusted the whisperers, but now he was overtly grateful Kíli had ignored the rumours and strung his bow anyway. Who knew where they would be now otherwise. Certainly not camped out in the shelter of the hidden valley, laughing and enjoying their first full meal in a long time. 

Bofur gazed about aimlessly, tapping his fingers against the railing. There were no clouds tonight: the moon was wide and full, casting their figures on the balcony in silver. 

Also, Bofur couldn’t help but notice, Elrond’s potted plants behind them smelled suspiciously of sick. 

He cleared his throat. “We all saw what you did today, lad. That business with the warg. None of us could’ve acted so quickly.” 

For a long moment, Kíli said nothing. His hands had clenched tighter against the railing, his knuckles pearly-white. 

Bofur nearly missed the words. 

“Fíli said it’d be like shooting a deer.” 

Bofur said nothing. He only lifted an eyebrow and waited. And, as expected, Kíli went on. He drew a breath, squared his shoulders, and fixated his gaze on the line of lights below. 

“At – at home, sometimes, we’d go hunting. Over the river, down by the ruins of Belegost. The deer grazed there in the spring. If I brought one down, Fíli’d help me carry it back. But it wasn’t like that at all. I – I killed the warg, and its rider, and I saw the light go out of his eyes.” 

It occurred to him very suddenly. 

Bofur shifted and laid a hand on the lad’s shoulder. Kíli jumped, but he only squeezed, imploringly. “Today was your first, wasn’t it?” 

Kíli’s jaw clenched. “Don’t tell Uncle.” 

“I think he already knows, lad.” 

“That I – I –” Kíli shot a terrified look toward the potted plants. 

“S’all right. I didn’t see anything.” Bofur squeezed his shoulder again and then let go. As Kíli remained hunched against the balustrade, an idea came to him. He reached within his cloak for his pipe; a few scrubs on his sleeve and it was fit for a prince. He lit it and offered it out. 

“Here. Take a nice long drag, it’ll chase the shudders away.” 

Wordlessly, Kíli obeyed. His fingers trembling, he clutched the pipe in both hands as if he’d never smoked before. Perhaps he had never smoked before, Bofur realized, after Kíli accidentally inhaled a mouthful and coughed. 

“Ah, sorry about that,” he apologized, pounding the boy on the back as he shuddered and his eyes filled with water. “Y’all right?” 

“Does it – does it ever get better?” Kíli rasped, swiping at his eyes. 

“Does what? The smoke?” 

“The killing.” 

Bofur’s wan grin froze on his face. _Ah. That._ He had never imagined he would have to answer that question from Thórin’s sister-son. After all, he was no warrior, only a simple toymaker. 

Was any of it simple anymore? 

“I’ll tell you this much, lad.” Bofur sighed deeply. “No. It doesn’t. And we should thank Mahal for that – means we’re still sane. Are you frightened, lad?” 

“They were hunting us,” said Kíli, avoiding his question and his eye. His fists curled at his sides, the pipe still clutched in one hand. “Going to kill us, if we didn’t do it first. And then Uncle looked at me. And I didn’t even _think_ , I just . . .” 

It wasn’t fear in Kíli’s eyes, Bofur realized suddenly. Something twinged in his chest. He stepped forward and grasped his trembling shoulders. 

“You’re compassionate. That is nothing to be ashamed of, though it may not seem like a blessing right now.” 

Kíli protested. “I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t feel – They would’ve killed us all –” 

“No, lad. You’re allowed to feel regret.” Bofur pressed his shoulders, gently but firmly. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you some easy way out. We’ll run into far worse trouble before our journey’s end. And again, we might have no choice but to kill or be killed.” 

Kíli said nothing. 

Again, Bofur thought ruefully, these were not his words to give. What more did a toymaker know of the world than a scared dwarfling? It should have been Thórin who comforted his sister-son, or Dwalin his charge; it should have been a warrior clapping him on the shoulder and telling him solemn tales of heroes and doing what was right. But Thórin was still gone, and Dwalin – Bofur realized quite suddenly – was keeping Fíli from falling into the same shuddering wreck. 

So, on impulse, Bofur went on. 

“But I can promise you this. You are not alone. I, and the rest of this Company, will stand behind you always. So you do not have to be ashamed, and you do not have to fear. Chin up, lad: tonight’s for rest. Let’s not think on it anymore.” 

Kíli nodded and looked down at his fists. Belatedly, he remembered the extinguished pipe and awkwardly pushed it back toward Bofur. 

“Thank you,” he said, very quietly. He hesitated over his next words. “Don’t . . . don’t tell Fíli about this.” 

From Thórin, to Fíli? Once more Bofur remained silent, and a moment later Kíli pressed on. 

“I don’t want him to have to worry about me. Please.” Kíli’s jaw clenched, his chin lifted. All at once, his old fate-defiant look was back in place. Yet, Bofur knew that it was a mask. 

It was sad to think that was all it would be now. 

Nevertheless, Bofur smiled and eased his hands off the young prince’s shoulders. “Never shall the words pass my lips.” 

With that, he held out his arm in beckoning. Kíli went through the doors ahead of him, and when Bofur followed a few minutes later, the dining-hall roared with the Company’s laughter again. It seemed Bombur had broken another chair: more fuel for their fire. 

Bofur looked around for where his poker had gotten to, but really he was searching for Kíli. And indeed he had found his way back into Fíli’s shadow. Poor Fíli seemed to have sobered a bit: someone had taken away his summerwine, at least, and he sat quietly, fixating the fire. It did not seem he had noticed his brother’s absence, but now he had an arm slung around Kíli’s shoulders, an absent protective gesture. 

Neither did Fíli seem to notice when Kíli stole his pipe and gnawed on the end of it. Like a dwarfling who wanted to establish himself among the men. Fortunately, he didn’t seem about to try the tobacco again anytime soon. 

Bofur retrieved his poker, and a new sausage, and settled himself across from their fire. When the sizzling of meat filled the air he closed his eyes and a strand of a sad song came back to him. 

_. . . To find our long-forgotten gold._


End file.
